


The Golden Age Before Us

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtly Love, Death, Dubious Morality, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, House Baratheon, House Lannister, House Stark, House Targaryen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, Internal Conflict, Middle Ages, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Mystery, Narcotics, Opiates, Political Alliances, Politics, Power Dynamics, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhaegar Targaryen seeks a companion who will help, not hinder him. The very last thing he needs is an innocent to hang onto his sleeve and require his protection from the intrigues of court when he himself is planning to overthrow a king. It is his hope that a public show of affection will force his father's hand enough to cement a union between himself and the Dornish Princess.</p><p>Given instead Lyanna of Winterfell, daughter of an until-recently reclusive house, the Prince watches all his plans go up in smoke as circumstances force him to declare for her and not for the partner he did want. Certain that his efforts will have to be doubled, the Crown Prince does not even conceive of consulting the maiden herself. It does not occur to him that there is more to Lady Lyanna than meets the eye.</p><p>AU! Lyanna Stark finds herself playing with burning candles among kegs of wildfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i - with optimism ahead

It was a truth well documented that fair maidens were deserving of valiant heroes to sweep them off their feet and take them to a far away kingdom. All songs spoke of it and the bards found each and every day a new example. It delighted the heart to hear their beauty and goodness rewarded in such a fashion.

Alas, there were times when the story was heavily altered and one wished to weep for the fair maiden rather than rejoice. Such was the story of one Lyanna Stark, daughter of Winterfell. At first glance, all the requirements of a song corroborated to shape her life. Young and beyond the shadow of a doubt fair of face, Lyanna had the vast kingdom of the North at her feet, three brave brothers – well, might be the last of them was more annoying than gallant – and a prospective marriage to put all other maidens to shame. There was only one issue. The would-be husband.

As she mulled over these matters of great import, Lyanna failed to maintain her grip on the carafe of water she had been holding midair and promptly dropped it as the wheelhouse gave a might shake. A distressed yelp passed her lips as water sloshed all over her gown, seeping into the light material.

The blunder was met with a great deal of laughter from her youngest brother, just in time to demonstrate gallantry. “This is why I tell you that thinking at all times about Lord Robert shall get you in trouble,” Benjen Stark managed to say when he paused so as to draw breath.

Scowling, Lyanna picked up the flask and hurled its contents at her brother’s head. The water splashed all over his face much to her delight, “Do you think I take pleasure in it? Would that I did not have to think about him.” Alas Robert hadn’t the good grace to be gallant as the knights of songs were, even though she had more than fulfilled her part.

More needling was the discovery that she would be forever stuck with a man incapable of controlling himself. It had taken sometime time but Lyanna discovered from reliable sources that Robert Baratheon would soon rival old Lord Frey’s brood.

“Then do not,” her brother answered in his infinite wisdom. “I swear one would think the world is at its end with the way you cry about this.”

“I am not crying,” the she-wolf corrected him. “But there must be a way of avoiding this atrocity.” The sooner she found it, the better. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

“I think you shall feel much better after you get your mare back.” He took the jug from her hands and pushed it into a corner. “In the meantime, try not to alert Brandon.”

She was not being difficult because of her mare. Lyanna sighed. There was little point in explaining it to Benjen once more. He knew well enough what the situation was. Although she would feel much better when her mare’s she was replaced and she could ride outside in the light of day.

Looking own at her dress, Lyanna considered asking her brother to go walk alongside the wheel house so that she might change her attire, yet swiftly realised that would only catch Brandon’s attention. The very last thing she needed was her oldest brother and his supervision. There had to be someway in which she might convince Robert to break their betrothal; and somehow she would have to avoid making Brandon and Ned suspicious.

The idea, whatever it was, was not likely to come to her in her current state. The she-wolf abandoned the pursuit in favour of a handful of moments of silence. As fate would have it, however, she was not to find fulfilment in even that.

Benjen, apparently unable to endure a few moments of silence and not hearing his own voice, proceeded to further irritate his sister. “You could always sing to him. If that does not put him off the idea of wedding, then I vow that nothing else shall.”

“Brilliant,” Lyanna murmured. Brilliant it might have been, but it was also useless. For all he liked to tease, must have known so as well. “Is there any other suggestion you plan to put to me, or shall I enchant him with _Brave Dany Flint_?”

“Indeed, that should warm his heart,” the younger sibling agreed. “Plead with him to be given permission to bring along a live replica of father’s banner and that might convince him of the wisdom of seeking a bride elsewhere.”

“Do you know, I’ve heard that Harrenhal is haunted. Mayhap a ghost or two could work on convincing my lord Baratheon that he must seek his new lady somewhere far, far away. Essos, if possible.”It was only after the words left her mouth that she realised her mistake. Essos. Robert was bound to dislike the very idea. “Or it might be that he would be better served by looking at the daughter of his own bannermen.”

A sceptical look passed over her brother’s face. “Well, as long as it pleases you, sister mine, I shall bring you a thousand ghosts.” If only to keep her silent and content, Lyanna thought. Still, it pleased her that he was willing to give aid. “There is, however, something I want in return. A favour, if you will.”

“What sort of favour?” the she-wolf questioned. With Benjen the gods knew he could mean anything at all. Last time she’d owed him any sort of favour, Lyanna had been obliged to attempt a nearly suicidal course for herself and her mare. A shudder ran down her spine at the memory.

“Nothing in particular. I would not wish to limit myself.” A sly smile played on his lips. “I just want a promise that should I need your aid, you won’t hesitate.” He was planning something. Lyanna was certain. Yet she could not refuse him. It was either accepting his proposal or resigning herself to Robert.

A short nod of the head. Her brother, though, knew better than to fall for that. “You must promise, sister,” he insisted.

“Words are wind,” Lyanna pointed out, still hoping that she might distract him, although after more than a decade in his company she truly should have known much better.

“Yours are most often lead,” Benjen contradicted.

Or mayhap she should have been aware that even the best laid plans, which hers was clearly not, most often failed spectacularly and left more than just a few willing to comment on and on about such events.

Silly notions aside, Lyanna knew that the tourney of Harrenhal was most likely her last chance of freeing herself from a miserable life as Robert’s spouse. With that particular goal in mind, Lyanna had made serious preparations. She had been careful in many of her choices for the tourney. Every little detail had been thought through. It was said that the King would participate. That was just as well. His court would follow. There would be many high-ranking lords to pick and choose from.

If good fortune was on her side she might even stumble upon a man of similar rank to Robert. The only one who came to mind was Lord Lannister’s son. Jon Arryn’s heir was Brandon’s friend. If she tried to charm him, he would undoubtedly tell her brother. Now that would be a bother.

“As charming as you look when considering with all your seriousness an issue,” Benjen cut right through her train of thoughts, “I would have your words now. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.”

“It seems that the older you grow, the less amiable you become. And you used to be such a sweet boy,” she sighed. “Very well then, I do solemnly swear I shall do you a favour when it is called for.”

Botheration. The wheelhouse shook once more. Lyanna spat out a curse as her head hit the wooden wall. “Whoever invented this contraption deserves to be locked into one and sent along the kingsroad throughout the Seven Kingdoms.” She was halfway certain that the inventor, may the gods relegate him to the deepest circles of hell, had done it to torture others. There was no other feasible explanation.

Her suffering seemed a constant source of joy to her brother. Benjen simply grinned at her, arranging one of the pillows behind his back. “Such dark thoughts. Were I a hapless suitor and had you delivered such lines, I would be more than reluctant to incite your anger in the future.”

“But as my brother you are more than happy to do so,” she growled at him, taking one of the pillows and shooting for his head. Benjen ion in his hands. “Do not think that just because the gods frown upon kinslaying you are safe.”

“You would go against the word of the gods?” Benjen gasped, though in such a manner as to let her know he was less than impressed with her threat. “Tall words and no action. Methinks you haven’t the daring to do anything.”

“Little brother, you are losing skill, I fear.” She already wore a damp dress. A torn one would only serve to bring her to the attention of others.

Benjen , apparently understanding it was time to put an end to their game, threw the pillow back at her. “Father would be so proud of you.”

He probably had the right of it. Rickard Stark would be more than thrilled to know his daughter was making an effort all on her own to not be perceived as a child. Much as her father loved her, he sometimes despaired at her antics. Which, if asked, Lyanna would freely admit she was doing as much to hold his attention as to have fun. But even she knew there were times when she ought to act the lady.

After what seemed an eternity trapped in a lurching box, the wheelhouse drew to a halt and the door opened. A gust of air swept past the opening inside. Benjen stepped into out first at the invitation of one of the guards. He dutifully helped her down as well, but could not resist stepping on the hem of her skirts.

Her balance disturbed, Lyanna nearly tumbled down. Knowing very well whose fault it was, she delivered swift retribution, her elbow catching Benjen in the ribs, albeit in a surreptitious manner. Thankfully, Brandon was occupied setting camp and Eddard had already gone to gather wood with some of the other men.

Lyanna waited patiently for her tent to be pitched. She might as well go trough the numerous houses and banners a few more times, though she rather thought she’d learned them well enough. It could not hurt to revise.

Once her accommodations had been prepared, she disappeared within her tent. A small trunk had been placed within, one in which she kept a light cloak and a heavier one of wool, along with a thick dress and a brief history of Westeros that she’d more or less taken from the Winterfell library when Maester Walys was otherwise occupied. He would not miss it for such a brief period of time, she reckoned.

And if he did, she would just explain that she had needed it. There, he would have little reason to chide her thus and she would have learned what she wished to know.

Loud sounds from without let her know that someone was approaching. Lyanna looked up in time to see the flap of her tent rise to allow entrance to Brandon. “Here you are,” he said. “Did I not tell you not to disappear without a word?”

“You once also told me that not eating my parsnip would summon a great ice dragon who would gobble me up,” she deadpanned.

“Lyanna!” Clearly her brother was in no mood to indulge her.

“Apologies. Next time I shall be sure to tie a rope to my leg and give you the end. You’ll have no problem finding me then,” she snapped. As if she could disappear into the wilderness.

“I’ll tie it myself if you continue with this act,” the older brother warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I get the time to write this in:
> 
> Fair warning, this will not be a wildly happy story. And some subjects will be less than pleasant. If easily offended, please avoid further contact with the story. Not all warnings have yet been published and despite the seemingly innocuous beginning, I promise you this is not a story that will make you smile.
> 
> There, that's my warning. If you choose to stick around, good for you. :)


	2. ii - puppeteers

Daeron sat down upon the stump, rolling his eyes at the absorbed look on his brother's face. It was just a tree. Granted, the frightening expression carved within the bark was liable to leave some night terrors behind, yet it was still nothing more than a tree. Suppressing a yawn, the younger sibling allowed his gaze to roam about in search of something other than blood-red sap oozing from sharp cuts along the white bark. One would think that more than a hundred years would have been enough to close the gaps. But nay, apparently weirwood trees, beside serving to remind each and every dweller of the kingdoms that the end would come, also exhibited a special talent of leaking sap every spring.

Needless to say Daeron Targaryen would rather subject himself to a full day of lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle than watch sap dry. Alas, he could not go back on his own. He could not go back, in fact, until his older brother ended his examination. Which Daeron hoped would be soon. Or else he swore that he would chop down the tree himself, with or without Lord Whent's permission.

There was a very good reason he was with Rhaegar in the middle of a godswood and not comfortably within Harrenhal. If only Daeron could recall whatever it was.

A sliver of pain stung his arm as he carelessly brushed the limb against a nearby tree. Daeron released a hiss and glared at the sleeve-covered, smarting flesh. And just like that, his memory returned. Or rather the memory of Shaena flinging a dagger about returned. His sister was a dangerous woman, especially when someone happened to pass a weapon into her hands.

It was little wonder that Rhaegar preferred the Dornish Princess to their own sister. Shaena, for all her outward beauty, had proven herself, time and again, to be more than a handful. The very thought of spending the rest of his lifetime with her produced such fright within him that Daeron was glad he'd not been born first. It was to Rhaegar that their sister had been promised, it was he who would have to claim that burden.

Truth be told, however, Shaena herself was less than thrilled with her prospects. She would not tell him why she was so against wedding Rhaegar and Daeron had never attempted to pry the answer from her for fear of finding himself a limb or two short. But the matter still remained. And it was made even stranger by the fact that at one point, Shaena had been more than glad to be the future queen. Whatever had changed that?

Daeron shook his head. It did not matter. He would be better served by finding a way to convince his brother that he'd seen enough of the bleeding tree. If allowed his own devices, Rhaegar would not leave until well past nightfall and Daeron was already hungry enough to eat the Lord of Harrenhall out of house and home.

"So, brother," the younger Targaryen called over the whispering wind, "what does the wise old tree say?" That had to be one of the more interesting notions Rhaegar had come up with to be sure. Apparently, if one meditated within the godswood, the old gods would offer aid.

To Daeron's mind it was simply that no one had dared tell his brother that not all he read in those books of his was viable or even real. And in truth, who would listen to the advice of a tree? It was preposterous to even contemplate, let alone put into practice. He supposed that was exactly the reason for which his older sibling showed such interest in the scheme. If it was something thought impossible Rhaegar would the very first to attempt it. And all for the sake of some old prophecy. Daeron should not feel as amused as he was.

Mayhap the gods would answer and some way would be found to being together Rhaegar and Elia Martell. But Daeron sincerely hoped that was not the case. The last time any Martells had taken over King's Landing, the general populace and more so the esteemed lords of the realm, those that were not Dornsih, had heartily protested. For someone who loved history as much as his brother, that should have warned him away.

But nay, he persisted. He persisted despite history warning him and even more, in spite of the fact that his chosen bride was not exactly what one might call fit for the role. Heavens, Daeron was not trying to insult the Dornish Princess' intelligence; she had enough of that an between herself and her younger brother, the one called Oberyn, they had developed a taste for shredding the pride of anyone whom they perceived their inferior, which category counted, unsurprisingly, most specimens of the Seven Kingoms. If Daeron was insulting anything, anything at all, then it was the woman's attitude.

His observations when voiced had been promptly dismissed by his brother. The younger Prince could but shrug at that. Rhaegar seemed to hold the Dornishwoman in no affection, yet at the same time he did hold her in some regard. It occurred to him that his brother was trying to find an escape from their father's tyranny; yet even so, far better candidates could be pursued. Why of out of all he chose Elia Martell, Daeron was certain the answer would further unsettle him, thus he never questioned.

After all, it was clear that as much as his brother wished for the match, their father would fight him tooth and nail. Out of then two, Daeron was more inclined to count the King the winner. His brother was bound by his position and unlike Duncan the Small, he hadn't the benefit of a merciful paternal figure. Going against father's word meant death, not only for his brother, but for the Dornish Princess as well. The gods knew King Aerys, quite mad by all accounts, would not hesitate to strike them down.

Rhaegar merely looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes two chips of ice. "We should return. The wind blows harsher."

"I do say, must you think of this at all times? Surely, if the gods mean for you to be with someone other than our sister, they would give you a sign." Or Shaena would slit his throat on the wedding night. Whichever could be achieved. "An old piece of wood is not going to help."

"Neither is your incessant complaining," his brother answered harshly. "You had best mount, or you can find your own way back."

"Good gods," Daeron muttered under his breath, "if you act around the princess so, 'tis a wonder she truly wants to wed you." To wed a Tragaryen could provide one with many benefits, but just as many risks. Elia was either paving her path to greatness or tumbling to her demise. There was no middle ground, not with Rhaegar who wished to play the most dangerous games of all and win.

"I heard that," the Crown Prince returned. "You are not nearly as subtle as you would like to believe."

"I am not the one trying to win a lady's heart," Daeron mocked lightly. "Were I you, I would run away with her. Common sense would dictate that she became your wife in deed, if not in the Faith. Words are wind, after all. She might be tempted to change her mind." Sullen as his brother was, and much as Daeron disliked the match that was in the making, it simply could not be stomached that he might abandon Rhaegar.

For himself, he hoped the scheme came to nothing. If a suitable lady was to be chosen, then Cersei Lannister might do. That one had the added benefits of being young and healthy. But who was he to naysay true love?

They rode the rest of the way to Harrenhal in relative silence, joined by the Kingsguard who was to keep them safe. Ser Barristan. They were much in luck with him. Whatever the man saw or heard, he was so tightly bound by his oaths that he would never whisper a word of it elsewhere. Just as well that he mightn't else many heads stood to fall.

"I do wish Aegon had come along," Daeron spoke after a long silence, if only to quench the strange need for words that seemed to bloom within him in such oppressive silence. "He would have liked to see the scorch marks on the stones. Black Harren," he laughed softly, "what a fool."

"Your sentiment will be much appreciated by Lord Whent," Rhaegar allowed himself a mile of his own. "But I would not say so before their maester." That man positively thrived on stories of Black Harren. Some said he was possessed by spirits. Daeron was certain that the only spirits the man indulged in were those found at the bottom of an ale tankard.

"So I see; the mighty Prince Rhaegar has run afoul of the keep's maester." It was an amusing thought, to be sure. But not something Daeron might have imaged of his brother. "Tell me, were you disciplined by the man as Maester Pycelle does to Aegon." The latest occurrence would still be imprinted upon their brother's legs. Daeron was sure.

"You did not see his head mounted upon the wall as we made out way to the godswood, did you?" Rhaegar questioned. The younger brother shook his head. "My objective was not to engage the old man in any talk of ghosts."

"Indeed? What need had you of him then?" It might be the dreams. The night terrors. Daeron did not speak the thought out loud. Rhaegar did not merely dislike speaking of them, he loathed being reminded of those pests. "I trust he has served his position well."

"As well as can be expected." A tinge of heaviness hung around the edges of the other's voice. Daeron knew that Rhaegar would have preferred to have his maester from Dragonstone along, but the keep could not do without him and Lord Whent might think it an affront to his honour and sworn men were the Prince to refuse treatment from Harrenhal's maester.

The dreams were always bitterer and more disturbing the further away he was from Dragonstone.

By the end of the tourney he would be able to return to his keep and his maester; whether Shaena was on his arm or his Elia was yet undecided. The young Prince suspected he would have a pretty piece of mummery to remember the tourney by if nothing else.

They finally entered the main courtyard of the keep. Servants were all about them, carrying out duties, making last hour arrangements.

A pretty servant girl dropped a cluster of flowers and an older woman chided her. Daeron offered the girl a reassuring smile. Her cheeks flushing, the servant scurried away, clutching the flowers she had picked off of the ground.

"Has anyone ever told you that you've father's wandering eyes?" Rhaegar distracted him from pursuing the form of the servant girl as she disappeared around a corner. "Have a care, brother."

"I have yet to discover anything untoward in a look," came the quick reply. "Out of the two of us, the one in more danger has the more years upon him and should know better."

"That again," the Crown Prince sighed. "I've nothing left to say upon that matter, brother."

"Nor have I," Daeron assured him. "'Tis not something different that I've said to you. Pray excuse me, Your Grace, I believe I am needed elsewhere."

And with that Daeron shoved the reins of his horse into the waiting hands of a stable boy, more than eager to follow the trail of the young woman who had caught his eye. Unlike Rhaegar, he was not trying to make a lasting impression or even to convince anyone of anything. Second sons were unlikely to ever sit a throne, after all, and he couldn't be gladder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of love this Daeron. Should write him more often, I guess.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. Until next time.


	3. iii - maiden of the tourney

Benjen gave her a long look. "You are aware that a lady has no need to linger about the stable and worry for her mare. There are stable boys for that." His excellent point was completely lost upon his sister though. Lyanna hadn't the slightest interest in what Benjen named the comport of a lady. She would have more than enough of an opportunity to enact it when the time came.

"Hush, Benjen. Just be sure that Brandon is otherwise distracted." To her mind the task was not so great. She would simply sneak to the stables, make sure her mare was well provided for and return without too much fuss being made, And most importantly, she would avoid seeing Robert Baratheon who was sure to come greet Ned.

With that in mind, the young lady took leave of her dear brother and made her way through the sea of tents. Some banners she recognised, some she did not. The latter ones she would have to look for in her booklet. Who knew when the information would be needful? Pleased, Lyanna passed the gates of the keep without anyone paying her attention.

It was truly to her advantage that so many had arrived that Lord When had been more or less forced to keep his gates open. Lyanna looked about, wondering if she ought to ask anyone where the stables were to be found. Determining that it would be, indeed, the best, she glanced around in search of someone approachable.

It was not that she was plagued by a sudden sense of shyness. But she was still aware that alone even a lady of good birth must pay mind to whom she speaks. Thankfully, she found the perfect candidate in what looked to be a servant of her own age heading towards her.

"You there," she called, stopping him in his tracks. The youth looked at her then with something akin to confusion. "Which way to the stables?"

A glint flared to life in his eyes and a dimpled smile appeared on his face. "The stables, my good lady?" He pointed her towards the road. "A short walk down. Mayhap I should join you."

"Mayhap you should return to your duties," Lyanna advised without blinking. How could Lord Whent keep such uncivil servants, she wondered. Alas her musings were not to take up most of her day. She had something to do, after all, and uncivil servants or not, she would see it done.

Lyanna strode forth, unaware that the servant she had sent on his way still watched her, a peculiar look upon his face. Had the maiden paid more attention she might have observed that despite the austere clothing and the cap that hid any strand of hair, the youth possessed a pair of violet eyes and wore upon his belt a Valyrian dagger.

Yet missed it she had. So Lyanna went about her way, blissfully ignorant of the fact she had talked down to a Prince of the realm. For his own part, Daeron had found the maiden amusing.

At least he'd not lied to her when giving the directions, Lyanna thought, not without a smidge of relief. She opened the door silently and peered within, expecting that she would find quite a number of people there. It was not so.

Muffled noises reached her ears and then a clear chuckle followed. Imprecations were thrown around. Instinctively, the maiden grew rigid. Mayhap she ought to retreat and come back at a later time. Who knew what could possibly be going on? Just as Lyanna unclenched her fingers from around the iron she was holding, a body few, quite literally in the line of her vision.

The young man let out a groan as his head hit the ground. It was then that Lyanna saw he was bleeding. Not profusely, but enough to stain the straw carpeting the ground. His descent was followed by another man, only this one occupied himself with smashing his fists into the injured one's face.

She had seen more than enough. Lyanna took a step back, intending to flee to a safer place. Just once more she looked behind.

Upon the ground was a shield that bore the arms of House Reed.

It was that which stopped her.

But what to do? She hadn't the necessary weaponry to fight them off and she was outnumbered. By the looks of their victim, he would not be of much help to her. Yet leave him she could not.

Taking advantage of the three men's lack of attention, the maiden made her way within and from the wall picked the shortest of the tourney swords. The rough wood pressed unpleasantly into her skin. Lyanna, though, concentrated upon making her way behind what looked to be squires.

She took in a deep breath, raised her weapon in a way she'd seen Brandon do when training and lunged into an attack. The wood smacked down upon one of the squires' shoulders with a loud sound. The man let out a yell.

"What do you think you are doing?" Lyanna demanded icily. "This is my father's bannerman that you are abusing." She hoped to the gods that they would have qualms about striking a noblewoman. "Be gone!" she roared a second time, brandish her weapon at them.

To her great luck, three pairs of eyes widened and three pair of legs took in a hurry to the stable doors, hurrying to make their escape. Relief tinged Lyanna's sigh when she dropped her wooden sword. Good gods, one day she would land herself in trouble that mere status could not solve.

Until that particular time, however, she had gained another responsibility. Kneeling by the injured man still lying upon the ground, Lyanna shook his gently. "Ser, open you eyes. Ser," she called to him. A weak groan slithered past his lips. "Ser, I pray you, open your eyes and lend some aid." He might well be smaller than the other three men had been, but he was still taller than Lyanna and heavier.

Grey eyes opened slowly. Lyanna looked down into those orbs, hoping that he would understand coherent speech. "Ser, can you stand?" She waited a moment for his nod, which came in a rather weak manner of moving one's head. Then, without making use of words, she slung his arm around her shoulders and fought to raise him off of the ground. Injured he might have been, but there was yet some strength left. The man was staggering though. The power of the blows must have done that.

"Come. I shan't take you far away, ser; only to a place where I might clean your wounds." And then she expected some vow of vassality to her personally for the sacrifice she was making.

Together they trudged through the busy courtyard ignoring the curious stares levelled their way. Or at least Lyanna ignored them. She hadn't the time to bother with them, nor did she particularly wish to correct any wild assumptions. Brandon would take care of that once the situation was made know to him.

"What have we here?" a voice called out, momentarily distracting Lyanna's attention. Losing her footing the maiden came dangerously close to landing on the ground with her injured companion atop. To his credit, the one distracting them hurried over to lend a hand.

"Are you out of your mind?" Lyanna demanded of the young, fair-haired man that had moved to balance her father's bannerman on the other side. "Can you not see that I am trying to help this man?"

"Has it occurred to you that you look like two wild creatures that had a good roll in the hay?" the blonde demanded, a grin upon his face. "Was it you who bloodied him, lady, or do you prefer tamer sport?"

He was mocking her. Lyanna would have slapped him then and there had she not had her hands otherwise occupied. "I thank thee kindly for your aid, ser, but your vile tongue is enough to turn my stomach. Pray be on your way."

A bark of laughter passed his lips. "Do you not know who I am?"

Likely the most annoying man in the Seven Kingdoms after Robert. The dubious honour was pleasantly completed by the title of most arrogant. "I care not if you are Prince Rhaegar himself. You are still dreadful to accuse me of anything."

"What is it with you women and that prince?" the youth groaned. "You, my sister, the Dornish Princess and the whole bloody female population of the realm." Despite his complaint, he continued to help them along. "I am Jaime Lannister of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock."

Men and their assumptions. Lyanna rolled her eyes. "I am Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. There, now that we are properly acquainted, you may return to whoever it is that you must return to."

Of course, he did not. Jaime Lannister merely shook his head at that. "We are not properly acquainted and I want to know why a lady of good breeding makes a spectacle of herself in full view of the whole keep."

"And I wish to know why you find it so important," Lyanna grumbled. "I have already told you why." It occurred to her as they advanced that she was about to bring two strangers before her brothers, two very male strangers she knew nothing of. Her steps checked.

"Why are we stopping?" Jaime question. "Tired, my lady?"

"Worried for you life and the Lannister line," she quipped back. "I thought I might take him to my brother's camp. But I know not."

"Worry not, fair Lyanna," he mocked in response, "I've a brother." But he did offer a solution as well. "I can host him for some time."

So he could. Lyanna looked at him, gratitude blooming in her chest. It is good to know that there are some squires left who value noble deeds."

"Squire?" he bristled. "I am not a squire, my lady. I am a knight."

And she was a septa. Lyanna laughed. The uninjured man did not and her own smile fell. "You cannot mean it." Apparently he did. "But you are not older than I, surely."

"It would depend on how old you are, my lady," Jaime groused unhappily. "By your height I would say a mere child of ten is what you are."

"I am four-and-ten, ser," she corrected him, cursing her lack of height and the fact that she'd taken after her mother in that. Turning her attention towards the one more deserving of it, Lyanna noted that the man was watching both Jaime and her with a stupefied expression. "Apologies, I had quite forgotten to ask, are you any better?" Her cheeks reddened.

"Better, my lady, ser. I can walk on my own." He tried to shake their hold away but neither would budge.

"You shall walk on your own soon enough," Jaime promised.

They had reached the Lannister camp. Lyanna looked around with a healthy dose of curiosity. Some of the Lannister men glanced back, but most went about their business without paying them much attention.

Jaime promptly indicated towards a large tent. "There. He can rest in there."

Once within, Lyanna helped the nameless man sit. "A bowl of water and some rags, if you please, Ser Jaime," she asked of her host.

"At your service, my lady," came the cheeky answer to which Lyanna shot him a glare. Nonetheless, Jaime went without and soon enough a servant returned with a pitcher of water and an armful of rags.

With politeness in mind, Lyanna could not help but ask the man she'd saved, "What name do you go by, ser?" He was a Reed if his shield had been anything to go by. She set about her work as he answered.

"I am called Howland Reed, my lady." He winced slightly as the wet cloth pressed against his face. Lyanna smiled apologetically. "I must thank you for your timely intervention."

"You are my father's bannerman, ser. It is the duty of the higher house to aid those offering loyalty." She continued to wash his face. "It is Ser Jaime you ought to thank for offering his hospitality." Dubious as it was.

"Indeed, I expect my portion of gratitude." Mention the devil and he is at the tent flap.

The knight moved swiftly behind her. Lyanna heard the footfalls. She looked over her shoulder nonetheless. "Ser Jaime."

"I am very grateful, ser," Howland proceeded.

"Much obliged," Jaime replied. "Lady Lyanna, a word if you will."

Since he'd aided her, she could not refuse. Lyanna stood to her feet with a promise of swift return and followed Jaime Lannister without.

"Who did that to him?" Jaime questioned. "Lord Whent should know of what goes on in his keep."

She knew not. Lyanna shrugged. 'I recognised the arms of House Frey, but the other two I do not remember."

"It makes no matter. A feast shall be held this evening. I shall see you there, Lady Lyanna, and your Ser Howland shall as well. Point them out to me then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that by now everyone knows where this train wreck is going. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and let me know what your thoughts are.


	4. iv - for want of better

Ashara hid her gasp behind a well-placed palm. She could not believe the state of the room. Princess Shaena, far from paying any mind to her ladies, was busy murmuring to herself. What the girl said, no one knew. All that the Westerosi noble ladies could make out was that the young Princess was as mad as her father.

And the Dornishwoman could not help but agree. She’d been warned not to act the Princess’ companion by more than one person. It served her right for not listening, Ashara supposed. With a small shake of her head, she picked up the Myrish eye off of the ground and wrapped the broken body in a length of cloth. Mayhap Arthur could fix it.

Cersei Lannister waved her over from the small table where she sat with Jeyne Tyrell and Jeyne Whent, the daughter of their host. The second Jeyne looked rather appalled and out of sorts at the same time. The first Jeyne had clasped her shoulder and was whispering something to her. The Lannister maiden shot her another look, this time laced with exasperation. Putting the Myrish eye out of her mind for the time being, Ashara walked to the table and sat down.

“What has happened?” she asked curiously of the Tyrell lady-in-waiting.

“I cannot say. We were perfectly well until Her Grace lost her temper,” Jeyne replied. “I know not what possessed her to break the Myrish eye. And it was such a pretty piece as well.”

“Never you mind that, I shall take care of it,” Ashara promised. “Lady Jeyne,” she addressed Jeyne Whent, “mayhap we should take a turn about the gardens. It is such a lovely day.”

“But Her Grace,” Jeyne, of House Whent, protested.

“I can keep an eye on her,” Cersei offered, the corners of her mouth dropping. “I shall make certain she does not land us all in trouble.”

The matter was that one needed to keep the Princess well occupied in order to keep her calm. Ashara, frankly, did not understand the sole daughter of the Crown. She had everything she could possibly wish for, she needn’t worry about shelter or nourishment, she even had a brilliant match with the man who was to become king. If she was displeased and unhappy what should the rest of the Westerosi ladies do?

“If you are certain,” Jeyne Tyrell allowed, although the way in which she leaned forth, as if in a hurry to leave, suggested that she more than wished it to be the case. “You needn’t stay. She can keep her own company.”

“Nay, nay. I shall stay.” Cersei sat down taking a lemon cake. “Look at all these cakes. Someone has to take care of them.” She bit into her treat. “Besides, I haven’t seen a single flower in bloom. What use would going to the gardens be?”

As ladies-in-waiting went, Cersei was one of the better ones. She rarely allowed anything or anyone to make her uncomfortable and if need be she was more than pleased to argue her way out of most troubles. It was mayhap why, despite their many differences, the Lannister maiden was the closest to the Princess.

Jeyne Whent took her leave of the Princess along with Ashara and the other Jeyne. Shaena did not feel the need to acknowledge their departure, thus the three of them left the chamber in favour of the hallway.

Without, Ser Barristan Selmy kept watch. Ashara nodded her head towards the man, offering a small smile. She wondered if her own brother was yet keeping guard for the King or if he’d gone to rest. She hadn’t been able to learn when he was to see to his duty and thus found it impossible to tell where he was. It made no matter, of course, as the Myrish eye had been left within the other chamber.

The three women found their way to the main path which led to the gardens. Lady Jeyne Whent led them about, pointing g out gates and towers, adding a bit of her own knowledge to the tales and generally regaining her earlier vivacity.

“Isn’t that Ser Jaime Lannister?” the other Jeyne pointed towards another trio ahead of them.

It was indeed Jaime Lannister. Cersei’s twin, who might have at some point looked to be her mirror, but now he stood a young man. Around his shoulder another man has slung an arm. Ashara could see blood painting the second man’s face. The third was a young lady by her grab. She was rather short and dark-haired, clearly caught up in berating the blonde knight. Neither one of the three saw them.

But they made such an interesting sight that half the court yard was staring their way and whispering.

“Who do you suppose he is carrying?” the first Jeyne asked.

“Mayhap it the lady’s brother,” Ashara offered. One could not know for certain, but what else was there to think?

The peculiar sight came at an end as Ser Jaime and his companions headed towards the sea of tents that Ashara knew to be without. Left to their path, the three ladies finally entered the gate which led towards the gardens. Cersei had had the right of it. The flowers were not yet in bloom.

Such a pity, Ashara considered. She would have enjoyed to see a spot of colour besides the crude green. It was not to be, however.

“Is your brother competing in this tourney, Lady Ashara?” the hosts’ daughter questioned gently, breaking Ashara away from her musing.

“Of course. I daresay there is very little my brother likes than unhorsing foes,” she laughed in turn.

“I am quite curious to see if the Prince shall win against him,” Jeyne Tyrell put forth. “I have heard that he wants to crown Princess Elia as the queen of love and beauty,” she let slip before she could think any better of it. Ashara shot her a warning glance. “Apologies, Lady Jeyne, I did not mean–“

“’Tis well,” Jeyne Whent assured the other. “The Prince may crown whomever he wishes if he is to win.”

Meanwhile within the chamber of the Princess, Shaena was pacing the length of the floor with steady steps. “I do not know what to do, Cersei. I cannot wed him.”

With a roll of her eyes the golden haired lioness pushed herself to her feet. “He is handsome, a skilled warrior and plays divinely. What more could you possibly want in a husband?”

There was the issue of him being her brother. Shaena grimaced. “You don’t know him like I do.” In fact, very few could see beyond her brother’s façade. Maiden seemed more than pleased to keep their eyes closed to it, however. “But I shan’t wed him. Even on pain of death. He is my brother.”

Cersei pickled up another lemon cake, looked at it for a few moments then placed it back upon the tray. “Then find someone else to wed. Is it truly that complicated?”

“And who would you suggest?” Shaena snapped.

They could not possibly understand. She wanted no part in her brother’s plans. If anything Shaena wanted to sail far, far away and never hear the name of Targaryen again. She did not wish to contribute anything at all to that prince of the prophecy and she was certainly not about to aid her brother in his scheme.

What he planned was madness. The King was their father. If Rhaegar wishes to dethrone the man and stain his hands with their sire’s blood he would do well to use his own helpers and not try to rope her along.

That just begged the question of why she had never gone to father about the matter though. It was quite simple. Shaena did not love the man. She never had since she’d begun to understand how matters stood between the King and Queen. But that did not mean she wished to be painted with the brush of kinslayer. Someone braver might not have cared, but gods-fearing creature that she was, Shaena preferred to avoid conflict.

It was thus left to her to fin and escape. The only which one she could think of was marriage elsewhere, anywhere but with Rhaegar.

Still, she hadn’t a certain lord or ser in mind. There were very few options for her. She could pursue at most a marriage with one of the houses the ruling class has allied themselves with before. “Well, Cersei, who should I take to husband?”

“There are no Arryns here, nor any Daynes that you might wed, Your Grace. I would suggest mine own brother, but I suspect the King would rather mount both our heads upon a wall than see such a union through.” Her companion paused. “There are Starks.” At that Shaena wrinkled her nose. “And Baratheons as well. I do believe Robert Baratheon shall participate in the melee.”

“Baratheon,” the Princess repeated slowly, allowing the name to roll off her tongue. A Baratheon would do. And they were kin of a sort by her father’s aunt. It should work out well if she could time it.

“Although, Your Grace, I have heard that the oldest one hasn’t eyes for any other maiden but the Stark girl.” Her trusted adviser, Shaena thought.

“That is of no consequence.” She waved her hand through the air as if to brush away her companion’s worry. Cersei sat back down. “Show him to me at the feast.”

“If Your Grace insists,” Cersei agreed.

Truth be told, she had very little desire to aid Shaena in her schemes. But it might aid her. The Prince, she knew, had been entirely captured by that odious creature from the Dornish deserts. The lioness could not possibly understand what it was that the heir to the throne saw in Elia Martell.

Certainly the maiden was tall and, to some, pretty, with gentle dark eyes and a soft voice. But she never had anything to say to anyone but her brother. And that one was a fiend is princely clothes. Oberyn Martell was not a viper; he was something much, much worse.

It might well be that Cersei still carried some resentment from years past. The Martells had, after all, been guests in her home of Casterly Rock and she still remembered quite well their behaviour. There was little doubt in her mind that brother and sister had made it a point to be as insulting as they could be, given the circumstances.

Brushing away the unpleasant memory, Cersei focused her attention upon the Princess. “But if you do not wed Rhaegar, Your Grace, then who shall?” She hoped, for a moment that Shaena might look at her as if she were asking silly questions and assure her that, of course, it would be Cersei that did. After all, hadn’t the cursed witch promised that she would be Queen?

But the Princess merely gave a snort. “That Dornishwoman can have him for all I care.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar gave his brother a sideways glance. He could not figure out what it was or rather whim it was that Daeron watched with such rapture. The last thing anyone needed was his brother landing himself in trouble with some lady or another.

“You could just ask me instead of glaring at me like that,” his brother finally said. “It is not that difficult of a feat.”

“I would very much prefer not to have to ask you,” the older Prince replied sharply. He glanced at Shaena who was lost in conversation with one of her ladies-in-waiting. “Daeron, are you waiting for a special invitation?”

“Not at all,” came the answer. “If you must know, I am looking at the delightful maiden who is dancing with Ser Jaime Lannister. I was wondering if status alone might be enough of an excuse to steal her away.”

Searching through the couples, Rhaegar strained his eye to catch the one his brother spoke of. Well, to be entirely truthful he looked for Jaime Lannister. The boy was quite tall and one had a better chance of finding him. And indeed he did find both of them, Jaime and his maiden.

Rising an eyebrow at his brother’s peculiar description, Rhaegar studied the young woman for a few moments. Delightful she was not. There was something quite attractive about her smile and the way it shone a cordial light upon her features, but beyond that, the oldest Prince saw nothing commendable. Small and slender, slightly out of balance and with an air of disarray about her, the maiden did not present much of interest to him.

“I think your eyesight is getting poorer,” he offered at a long last.

“Oh ho!” Daeron exclaimed unabashedly even as a few pairs of eyes turned towards them. “You have not met her, Rhaegar. I swear she is the most amusing creature. You should have heard her out in the courtyard sending me on my way.”

That caught his attention. “What have you done, Daeron?” His brother and that dratted curiosity about the other sex. Rhaegar could not understand for the life of his why Daeron needed to keep in almost constant company with females.

“Nothing,” his brother assured him. “She wanted to know how one might reach the stables. I offered to led her there and smart wench that she is, her refusal was immediate.”

The matter was that Daeron, while he did enjoy spending time with those females that fell for his charm, found infinitely more to commend about the ones that refused him. Rhaegar sighed. It occurred to him that the girl, whoever she was, knew not her way about court very well.

Without meaning to, his eyes slipped to her once more. She had moved slightly closer to Ser Jaime and he was whispering something to her. She nodded and a small smile decorated her lips. In that moment, with the candlelight casting a warm glow upon her face, she could truly be considered beautiful.

Once the thought had sunken in, Rhaegar experienced a moment of slight panic. What was he thinking? Pretty, beautiful. He forged himself to look away from the couple and towards Princess Elia. The Dornishwoman was speaking to her brother, head bent close to his.

If there was a woman who was truly beautiful, then she was not that woman. There were fairer maidens, Cersei Lannister for one. Lord Lannister’s daughter, a maiden of five-and-ten, would have been the perfect candidate were Rhaegar entirely free in his choice. But Tywin Lannister would come along with such a maiden and having one power-hungry madman to contend with was more than enough for Rhaegar. There was Ashara Dayne as well. But House Dayne was not very much involved in the running of the kingdoms and they were not likely to offer aid.

So Rhaegar had settled upon the most convenient choice. Elia Martell. Dorne was willing to part with a large sum of money for her dowry. That could pay for an army. Doran Martell might even take his seat upon the Small Council if all went well. Even more, Elia herself was not some silly girl with songs in her head. She would not need him to constantly hold her hand.

Given the circumstances, she was the very best that could be had.

“That look upon your face rather puts me in the mind of a hunt gone wrong. Must you grimace so?” Daeron chided him lightly by way of distraction. “I know how you love to dole out pity for this world we live in, but I thought your lady love might work to cheer you some.”

“Daeron, I pray you, be silent.” Looking away from Elia, Rhaegar took up his cup and down its contents. “I vow that if it were not to cause a stir, I would discipline you myself.”

Much of the evening passed in the same veins, with Daeron trying to goad him and Rhaegar being as responsible as h ought to be at such an affair. Until, at long last, he was beseeched by the host to play his harp. It was a request that he could not refuse.

The low, mournful melody filled the cavernous hall, flittering about guest, tugging at hearts. But there was one heart in particular that the Prince wished to impress. He watched Elia from time to time, to gauge her reaction. She had dropped her conversation in favour of listening, but it seemed to him as he gazed at her that her mind was a thousand miles away. Still, he persevered. He carried through with the tune, putting all mastery to the art he’d learned into it.

And still, there was nothing, nothing in her eyes to suggest she had understood what he conveyed.

Cheers and admiring expressions met his performance. Rhaegar broke his gaze away from Elia to look over the gathering of lords, ladies and knights.

At one of the tables, the lady his brother had pointed out to him gingerly wiped at the wet tracks sliding down her cheeks. A younger boy, by the looks of him a brother, grinned widely and said something to which the maiden gasped and threw her wine cup at him.

Inwardly wincing, the Prince rose from his seat.

“I told you she was the most amusing creature,” Daeron said when Rhaegar rejoined him at the high table.

“You lack taste as well as sight, I see.” His response did nothing to diminish Daeron’s reaction though. Nor his apparent enthusiasm for what had to be one of the most idiotic ideas Rhaegar had ever heard.

“Ask her to dance,” the younger Prince suggested. “She is bound to make a better impression upon closer inspection.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Rhaegar swiftly refused. “If you intend to pester me all night long, I shall leave you on the morrow to serve as Shaena’s page.”

“Shaena has no need of a page. She has her ladies-in-waiting.” Daeron raised his cup. “To your ever sour mood, Your Grace.”


	5. v - bitter fruit

Robert's fingers gripped her upper arm tightly. "Do you think me blind, my lady?" he questioned, his hold becoming painfully tight. "What business have you speaking in such an intimate manner with Ser Jaime Lannister?"

Lyanna cursed the fickleness of her fortune. She had thought herself safe from Robert and had merely meant to take in some fresh air. Having stepped out of the protective space of the great hall, she had relinquished the careful watch of her brothers. A curse flittered through her mind.

The man standing before her was not one she would win against if she decided upon a battle. Nay, indeed, enraged as he was, Lyanna knew not what her suitor was capable of. If she could only slip away from him somehow.

"Ser Jaime asked me to dance," she answered coolly. "He is the son of Lord Tywin Lannister. Were I to refuse him it would have reflected poorly upon myself." There were several brands that one attributed could not be taken back and produced a stain.

If she was to ever reach her goal, that of attracting a suitor other than Robert, she could not be seen as cold and unapproachable. It was truly an easy matter to understand. Only the oaf before her insisted upon trying her patience with his boorish behaviour.

"Kindly remove your hand from my person, ser." The she-wolf pulled back slightly, trying to pry herself away, "or need I point out that I am here in the care of my brothers?"

The gal of him. Just because their fathers had exchanged a number of letters and a betrothal was being discussed, he thought she should be kneeling before him in adoration. It was quite clear to her that he could not conceive of her not wishing to be in his presence anymore than Brandon could understand that he played a dangerous game with one of the Princess' ladies.

Was it by change a characteristic of all males to be so obtuse, or was Lyanna singularly affected by such misfortune? The answer, she could not give, for it was far from the mind. What could be done, however, was to extricate herself as fast as possible from this situation and put a distance between herself and Robert.

"You need not point out a thing to me, Lya," he snapped. "I am to be your husband and I shan't stand for such behaviour."

And she was to murder him if he did not let go of her hand. Lyanna took a deep breath. "When you are my lord husband in the eyes of the realm, then you may make use of such authority. Until that time, I am the sister of Brandon Stark, and shall do as I am allowed by my brother."

Despite the many disagreements between siblings, Lyanna much preferred her brother's hovering to Robert's attempts at asserting himself. It was not a matter of unwillingness to listen, it was a matter of her being less than willing to listen to him specifically.

The door opened and into the hall stepped Eddard. He saw the two of them and naturally joined them. "I see you have found Lyanna," he said to Robert, obvious to what had previously gone on. "Brandon insists that you return within, sister mine."

"So he has torn his attention from Lady Ashara long enough to notice my absence?" The young noblewoman supposed she ought to be grateful. Her hand landed on Ned's arm. "Then let us not keep my brother waiting."

A curious look passed her brother's face. He waited for Robert to walk before them, then bent his head towards Lyanna. "Since when have you concerned yourself with Brandon's wishes?"

"I can be a good sister," she insisted in turn, not quite please with the implication. "Brandon is unreasonable at times."

Ned replied nothing to that. It was just as well considering they'd entered the hall once more and noise rang out all around them. Lyanna was led to the table and she breathed out in relief when Robert went ahead and found himself another to drink with.

Howland Reed had retained his seat at the table, his despondent mood still in place. Lyanna though of offering words of consolation, but no matter that she has saved him, she could not bring herself to do so. Every man had a certain burden to bear and all were responsible for their own actions.

Leaning back in her seat, Lyanna picked at the plate of food set before her without much aim in the gesture. She had eaten all that she would and drinking held little appeal. Something caught her eye and she looked up in time to see Princess Shaena level her a stare. Jaime's sister was looking towards her as well, but without the curiosity of the first. Instead in the other's face she saw resentment.

Puzzled, the she-wolf glanced away, wondering if she could find Benjen somewhere in the crowd and keep company with him. To be the object of attention was not her goal, except in that she might capture a particular attention and create a favourable situation for herself. If anything, her encounter with Robert has solidified her distrust in the man.

To her fortune, she was not left to suffer. Benjen was soon to appear, yet not alone. In his company, Lyanna noted that another was coming towards her. She stood to her feet to greet the Prince, but when he drew nearer, recognition swept in and paralysed her.

"I see your memory is working well, my lady?" the young Prince said, a grin on his face. "I trust you had no trouble finding the stables."

"Nay, Your Grace," she responded warily. "I should wish to apologise–"

"There is no need to," Daeron assured her. "In fact, I want you to forget the whole incident."

A confused Benjen cleared his throat. "You have made the acquaintance of my sister, Your Grace?"

"Briefly," the Prince nodded promptly. "Very briefly indeed."

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Lyanna allowed herself to sit back down as the Prince occupied a seat between he and Benjen. Uncertainty ruled her for a few moments until her eyes landed on Jaime Lannister somewhere on the other side of the room. The knight raised his cup towards her in a slight gesture, but returned to his conversation just as soon.

Unbeknownst to her, Daeron was observing the maiden with a careful eye although he spoke in hushed tones with her brother. There was something he was missing. It irritated him to have discovered it. He had seen her dance with Jaime Lannister, just as he had seen her keep company with Robert Baratheon briefly. However, despite rumour holding that she was to wed the latter, her attention was continually slipping to the young lion.

Was it possible that an idyll was at play? Indeed, Lyanna Stark was a pretty maiden no matter what Rhaegar thought. And Jaime Lannister was easy enough on the eyes. And she had ventured to the stables on her own. It fell into place.

But it also made for a strange picture. Jaime Lannister, to the best of Daeron's knowledge, was to play as pawn in his father's schemes and wed a young lady whose family had connections. The North was too remote a kingdom and much too uninvolved for such a bond to hold any appeal. Surely Jaime knew that.

Yet if he did and still chose to court Lady Lyanna, then the fault lied with him. Was it possible that he used a young girl's naïveté as a weapon? What could be gained from such a move, Daeron wondered.

Still, he had to admit that his speculations, no matter how well tied together, lacked evidence enough to construe a case. Mayhap if he kept a close watch on the two. Indeed, that would be appropriate. After all, a prince of the realm, though he mightn't rule, still was obliged to care for those under his protection.

That would be best, he decided, simultaneously answering a question Benjen Stark had put forth. "Rhaegar competes and I haven't the will to challenge him at the moment for such honours," he said. "I trust my brother shan't disappoint."

The Seven only knew what would come of it though. Daeron was quite certain a storm of sorts was approaching and those unable or unwilling to take cover would be swept away. It would be interesting to watch and not so much to participate.

"I wish father had allowed me to participate," Benjen offered. "I think Ned ought to have done so."

"I am certain your brother has his reasons for not wishing to compete." Namely the knowledge that he would not win, Daeron imagined. "There will be tourneys aplenty throughout our lives. One shouldn't concentrate on impossibilities."

"Wise words," Lady Lyanna said, joining the conversation at a long last. Daeron could only imagine she had grown tired of looking after Ser Jaime. "Father knows your skill may yet be polished. Do you not wish to be at your best when competing?" she asked her brother.

Benjen grimaced. "Of course you would say that. You are still angry that he took away–" And there he stopped himself short. Curious, Daeron urged him silently to continue, but Benjen merely shook his head. "I still think he ought to have allowed me to participate."

"Let us praise the wisdom of our elders then," the sister snapped, unforgiving. It was mayhap petty and certainly amusing.

Daeron looked between the two of them. The Prince wished his own siblings might be as close. But it was simply not possible. The situation was so that with all his understanding and benevolence, Rhaegar had been born far earlier than them and would forever see his siblings as children, unfit to be of aid. Shaena was preoccupied with her own schemes and rarely, if ever, was in a mood to deal with the rest of her brothers. And Daeron himself was growing more and more distant from the younger dragonlings. After all, the three of them were just children. Still, he supposed he might take the time to strengthen the bonds every now and again.

"I say, this is truly remarkable," the Prince broke the awkward silence that had fallen between them, "I have rarely seen siblings quarrelling in full view of the realm." He laughed, pushing away his own sadness for the moment. There would be time enough to contemplate it at a later date. "You should give a thought to mummery."

"Your Grace is too kind," Lyanna Stark answered him, a thin veneer of mockery clinging to her words. "We are ever glad to offer entertainment." He could not detect actual anger in her voice, however. It was very likely self-mockery.

"It is every man's fondest wish to be praised by a fair maiden," he returned with ease. "You cannot blame a body for showing interest when you yourselves have no concern for the amount of exposure you allow."

"A fair maiden?" Benjen made a sound in the back of his throat. Rather like he considered the Prince's assessment one that did not match reality, he chuckled. "I never thought to hear the sentiment so clearly put forth."

His sister, far from taking violent offence, merely gave him a curt glance. It was the teasing of siblings. Daeron shook his head, but a feeling of contentment seeped through him. "I would have thought there would be droves of suitors to keep away from your sister."

"There were," Benjen acknowledged, "but my sister rarely need my aid in that."

"A shieldmaiden, Lady Lyanna?" Daeron cajoled.

She laughed. "Not at all. If one were to believe every word which left my brother's mouth, I should shortly become a figure of legend." It pleased her too, by the way she smiled.

"I have no doubt such a place would be well deserved." They shared the amusement within their small circle, and it occurred to the Prince his older brother could use a bit of this atmosphere himself.


	6. vi - some consideration

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My sister has been watching you,” he said, quite sudden in his broaching of the matter. Lyanna held back the desire to glance towards said sister and confirm his words. What good would that do when she felt the stare even as she was? “Rather intently, I must add.”

“Might be she fears for Your Grace,” she offered with ease. “Might be she think the choice of company strange.” Benjen had been drawn away to a small group of young men. Lyanna had known to expect trouble when the Prince declined to go with him. It was only natural that they should stare at the two of them.

“An interesting theory,” Daeron allowed, one hand rising as if to dismiss it altogether nonetheless, “but my sister is well aware that I keep only the best of companies. Nay, likely she wonders why I have not yet caused some mischief.”

“Do you intend to?” Lyanna shot back, unable to help herself. At his slight surprise she laughed. “Cause mischief, Your Grace?” He was pretending not to understand her she reckoned. All the same, for it was pleasant to spar with him.

“Time spent is not well spent if one is not causing mischief,” the Prince addressed her concern, tipping his cup forth to drain some of its contents. “I never was an advocate for wasting time.” These words seemed to be more than anything addressed to himself. He sighed and looked away from his cup towards her face. “I do have redeeming qualities though, my lady.”

Men had tried to enter her good graces before. It was just that no one had been quite so candid about the matter. “I do not doubt it.” His cast, strangely put together in serious contemplation mellowed some. “Truly.”

“You lie, my lady. But ‘tis a pretty lie. I will not hold a grudge.” Inclining his cup towards her, Daeron offered a sharp little grin. Lyanna was content to nod. “If you were willing, I should like your next dance.” Again she answered with no words.

So Daeron stood and offered his arm, but instead of leading her to where the others danced, he swept her upon the path towards the King’s table. Cold sweat broke out, drenching the back of her neck even as she plastered a serene smile to her face. True to form, he was up to some sort of mischief and Lyanna was not quite certain his redeeming qualities would be enough to bridge whatever gap he meant to tear, be it with her or with his kin. Yet what could she do.

They progress attracted more than one stare. Lyanna would have looked around brazenly had she a drop more of wine in her blood. As it was, she hesitated between pretending to be a wilting bloom or a remote island. Before she could decide upon either, Daeron had brought them to a standstill, his hand coming to cover hers in an almost paternal gesture, made all the more odd when considering he was the younger of them.

Eyes not unlike his brother’s, but with a distinct coldness, the eldest Prince held her stare as soon as she gathered enough courage to look properly upon the royal family. He cocked his head to the side, as if confused by his brother’s actions. Yet his stare held hers, not Daeron’s. And what a stare it was. She’d heard it said before that some eyes burned into another’s soul. What she was experiencing must have been a form of it. A form only for she did not burn. She very near shivered at the awareness in his gaze, barely holding back from checking the beating of her own heart for fear it has frosted over under his eyes.

She’d never been looked at in such a manner before. And Lyanna was not entirely certain it pleased her.

“And who is this, Daeron?” a young female questioned, her silver mane marking her the King’s daughter.

“Shaena for shame!” her brother cried out good-naturedly. “I have spoken to you of Lady Lyanna Stark before. What a poor job I must have done for you not to recognise her at once.” With a mournful glare of artful exaggeration, Daeron clasped her hands with fervour. “My lady, I assure you, I am not usually this negligent.”

She managed to bite the inside of her cheek hard enough to keep from laughing. “I understand, Your Grace,” she offered, rather certain amusement danced in her stare. She made her bows and answered a few questions thrown her way, eyes stabbing at the oldest of the King’s children every now and again.

His gaze was unfocused. Startled at her own realisation, Lyanna very nearly stumbled backwards. She tried to shake the thought away but the more she stood there, the more apparent it became. Daeron was already hurtling down his path before she could stop him.

“My my, sister, how well you look. As if you were in need of a twirl.” It seemed to be a code of theirs for though she rolled her eyes, Shaena Targaryen jumped down from her perch, hand already in his. Lyanna contemplated reminding Daeron he’d promised her the dance. But when she did not speak the words, Daeron gasped himself and turned towards her. “My ladies, I do apologise.”

That snapped Rhaegar out of whatever stupor he’d slid into previously. His gaze was no more focused, but Lyanna suspected he was making an effort despite that. Daeron explained right away. “I seem to have made a muddle of it. Dearest brother, I pray you, help me out. There are two lovely ladies to dance with, but only one of me. And my mouth has run before my mind again.”

She was the tension and for a split-moment thought he might refuse. It might cause a stir, a few laughs and pointed fingers. It would certainly be considered a breach of etiquette, but it was naught any of them could not survive. Lyanna prepared herself, lowering her gaze to hide a potentially telling reaction. But the refusal never came.

“My lady, would you care for a dance?” There was no warmth in his question, none of his brother’s easy manner or friendliness. Did he disapprove? The innocuous suspicion took root until Lyanna could not dislodge it. And yet he had offered.

“If Your Grace does not mind, I need a moment.” She searched her mind for an excuse. “The heat, you see,” Lyanna trailed off. She herself did not see, but she hoped her lie would not be questioned.

“I daresay, it’s a deal warmer than what you are used to, my lady,” the heir to the throne allowed. “Sit by me then.” She took the seat to left and tried to make as if no one stared. A servant filled Shaena’s cup, clearly expecting she would drink from it. While she scrambled for any subject she might pose for longer conversation, the man at her side sighed. “Do you find my brother than agreeable of a partner?”

Starting, Lyanna glanced at him. “Your Grace?”

“You were staring.” And he could make it out? Lyanna looked ahead doubtfully. At once she perceived Daeron in her line of sight and understood the question. She smothered a smile which threatened to curl her lips.

“I am staring,” she corrected. “In my defence, Your Grace, your brother is an accomplished dancer. And Her Grace matches him perfectly. I was wondering how much of it was talent and how much hours spent attaining it.”

“So you would rather dance with my brother.” She struggled to catch his meaning for precisely a couple of heartbeats before giving up.

“I would rather not dance at all, if I could help it. But I have learned that at times what one wishes and what one needs are two very different things.” Pleased with her witticism Lyanna tore her gaze away from Daeron. “If Your Grace insists upon a dance, I cannot rightly protest.”

“But you would rather,” he trailed off as if in invitation.

“I would rather we took some air.” The doors to the hall were open and she had seen a number of individuals, even couples, going without. “If Your Grace is amenable.”

He nodded. Lyanna waited for him to offer his arm before she stood at his side, wondering if she ought to steer them clear of obstacles or simply wait. But the Prince, as soon as he had her within grasp, began making his way in a straight line, seemingly expecting that the rest of the world would protect him. And it very nearly did.

Lyanna nudged him gently as a knight whose name she did not know stumbled towards them. The danger was sidestepped with minimal effort and some nervousness on her part. But in the end they made it to the hallway and from there into the gardens. She breathed out in relief, instinct prompting her to release the arm she was still holding with some force. A blush stole over her cheeks at the realisation.

In the sanctuary of the dimly lit gardens, Lyanna felt as if there was naught to fear. Until the Prince spoke that was. “Why did you aid me?” The question bounced off of her with staggering force. She’d not expected him to mention it.

To be honest or not to be honest. Lyanna pondered the question for a moment. “In truth, Your Grace, I know not. You were there, is all.”

“And my mere presence warrants such a reaction.” It was disbelief that tinged his words, not the annoyance she’d expected. “Is that what you occupy your time with, my lady, aiding those you perceive to be in trouble?”

Colouring at his tone, she cleared her throat gently. “I presumed, Your Grace, and if I was out of line, I offer my apologies. I did not mean to make anyone feel inadequate.” Least of all herself. She supposed it was a lesson she should have learned. Not all wounded dogs would thank her for the aid, some would rather growl at her.

Something shifted in his expression. Tension eased ever so slowly. “Apologies,” he offered after a brief silence. “I fear I have taken my annoyance out on you, my lady, when you were least deserving of it. And I do thank you for the aid.”

Her own posture eased. “Is it,” she hesitated as he stared at her mercilessly, “any better now?” It was no concern of hers. He would think she’d taken a fancy to him, Lyanna chided herself for asking a mere half a heartbeat later. “Your sight.” Her foolish mouth would not stop talking. She had a mind to stuff it with bread when she reached the table once more. It would be no less than it deserved.

The man blinked. “Much better.” They remained two statues in the gardens for a little while. “How did you know?”

“Your gaze,” she said simply, shrugging when he prodded for a lengthier answer. “It was unfocused.”

“Most would suppose me beset by melancholy,” he chuckled, apparently finding some amusement in the situation. Better that one of then could then.

“I’ve no doubt, Your Grace, that you use their misconception to the fullest advantage.” At that his smile widened some, a sliver truly.

“There is no use to it otherwise. My brother would tell you the very same, I assure you.” His innocent look did not fool her. The man was fishing for a reaction. Her worry was how best to phrase it.

“His Grace is fortunate in his abilities then.” There, that ought to say naught at all about how she felt. Still, she itched to speak more. If she bit her tongue too hard there would be blood. Lyanna wrinkled her nose.

“Are all Starks like you, Lady Lyanna?” he asked, the half-jest prompting a slight smile from her.

“Considerate, Your Grace?” she returned without fear of repercussions.

“Bold, infuriating and unrelenting,” he clarified, expression melting back into a mask of neutrality. Two could play the game.

“To the last,” Lyanna answered with the same calm expression. “Are all Targaryens like you, Your Grace?” She’d meant it as a jest of her own, but by the tightening of his lips, her partner did not see it as such.

“Nay. To be sure, some of us are,” he paused briefly, “sane, dare I say.”

“Your Grace, there you are,” a voice interrupted them. Lyanna flinched both at the sight of the Dornish Princess and at Rhaegar Targaryen’s relief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. vii - the hide-behind

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Have you persuaded him?” she asked softly, hoping that the abundant drink within kept the realm blind to her meandering. Or if not entirely blind, then at the very least disinterested. It was hard a thing to plan revenge when all eyes followed one.

Jaime rolled his eyes, the drinking horn in his hand tipping slightly. “He does not wish to joust, my fair lady. I have tried all I could think of, even offered him my own suit of armour. Your brother even attempted to drown the man’s common sense in drink to convince him. The plain and simple should be clear enough even to you.”

She took the horn from his hand with a grand gesture. “Are you not a knight? Haven’t you a duty to this man?” Her fingers squeezed around the object, shaking visibly. She did hope no one paid them much mind. Lyanna pursed her lips up at him, silently demanding an answer to her query.

“My only duty is to make certain I don’t wring your neck for being an insolent witch,” he spat back, colour high in his cheeks. “If the man won’t defend himself, I see no reason to intervene.” When he did not immediately make for the horn, Lyanna blinked slowly. He did not fail her though. “And he would not want me to publicly defend him.”

“He said so?” Granted, Howland Reed was one of the stranger creatures she’d encountered, but Lyanna was still taken aback. It was perfectly sensible to desire some sort of retribution, yet the man would neither dole nor condone any of it.

“He need not say it.” The Lion’s cub sat down to her right, hand reaching for the horn. The demand was met with a softening of her grip. “Were he not a knight himself, might be ‘twould be smoother sailing upon the matter.”

“But they were three in all and only one of him. Surely, ‘tis no shame to lose when the fates themselves are set against you.” Her hand free, Lyanna brought them together upon her lap. “Any man would have found it difficult to battle three opponents at the same time, let alone come out victorious.”

The accepting nod given in reply did little to quell her indignation. Still, Jaime spoke over her when she opened her mouth to continue. “You chased them off and bore him away. Surely, you are well aware of what will come if we make the knowledge public.” Lyanna did not answer. If she did not speak the words, she could deny the existence of it long enough to convince someone else to aid her. Jaime had no such compunction. “He is a knight and they were mere squires, not even among the strongest. How will his men look at him if they know he hid behind your skirts?”

Anger boiled beneath her façade. Lyanna wanted to cry out that surely they would understand. She wanted little more than to tell Jaime her father’s men, the entire North, would look upon the issue with no prejudice. But even as she thought up the lies, her mind went to Brandon teasing Benjen when she last knocked him into a bank of show. By the look on her companion’s face, he was aware of her realisation.

“’Tis most unfair.” The impotent whisper marked little more than her disdain. “Their behaviour was odious. At the very least for that they should be punished. Were I to say I had been the one assaulted, you can count on it that no one would think twice before they were given to the pillory.”

“Might be,” Jaime allowed. “All the better than you’ve three brothers with you to aid. But he hasn’t, and is unlikely to magically sprout kinsmen on the morrow.” He gazed away from her, towards the crowd. “Methinks you’ve conquered a few hearts on this night, my lady.”

Irritated at the change of subject, she was about to brush his observation away when she caught sight of Robert morose stare. “I assure you, ser, this one is a heart I would fain give away.” Good gods, one would think she’d be off fornicating out in the open with the way he stared. “That is no territory I wish to step one foot in.”

“I beg your pardon, are you saying you do not find Robert Baratheon eligible?” Jaime’s stare bore into her skull. She kept silent. “Nay. ‘Tis not true.”

“You may have him if you want him,” Lyanna snapped, eyes shooting mutinous daggers Robert’s way. “I daresay he won’t be able to tell the difference.”

Stunned, her partner took a moment to digest the words. “You do not truly think yourself my match in beauty, do you, Lady Lyanna?” And it was her turn to stare at him as if he’d gone mad. Having caught her off guard, Jaime did not hesitate to savour his victory, chuckling at her naïveté.

“Fear not, Ser Jaime, your vanity far surpasses mine.” The tart answer was accompanied with an innocent smile. “I daresay the day when I match your beauty is the day you match my wit.”

“You had best use whatever hours are afforded to you wisely then.” Jaime glanced away, she presumed towards his sister, for it was in the general direction of the King’s table. “It seems we have the attention of another as well.”

“Must be your unmatched beauty, ser. Dare I ask who is looking at us?” Not that it carried much import. At such gathering one came to more or less stare about. That was discounting those who came for drink.

“The King’s oldest.” Mischief played upon the young knight’s face. “Were I to do something shocking, would you protest too much?”

“I make a point not to protest too much at aught that is shocking in nature. My brothers, however, are of different ilk.” Fingers brushed at her side. She held back the desire to jump away, mildly curious.

“Only the Prince will see.” One eyebrow rose. After the manner he’d abandoned her in, he deserved at least a little shock. “I swear.”

“’Tis your own funeral otherwise,” she shrugged in the end, figuring it could not hurt very much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thus his arm settled around her waist, a triumphant smile on his face. It grew even wider a mere few moments after.

Shaena snorted lightly, her hand slapping against his arm, negligible discomfort forgotten as soon as she opened her mouth. “You say this as if he is capable of being impressed with anything or anyone, for that matter. Have you forgotten? Rhaegar Targaryen has ambitions, not a heart.”

“How harsh you are,” he chided in return, wondering not for the first time whether Shaena had realised the crucial difference between their brother and their father. “I assure you, though, that she can do a lot more than impress him. Did you not see her when he played?”

His sister shook her head. “And what would it matter if I did?” She reached out for her cup, nearly knocking his over. “I’ve told you not to put them this close.”

“Never you mind that. I saw her. I saw her very clearly indeed. She was weeping, Shae.” Shaena started slightly, whether at the use of the old pet name or because of Lady Lyanna’s reaction he could not tell. Nonetheless, he had her attention. “Not the sort of weeping your ladies do, mind, when some gallant breaks their heart. He could be impressed if he wished to, because she understands.”

Bristling, the girl at his side closed her fist around the cup. “Unlike me, is that it? She understands our dear brother because somehow you know her tears mean that. That is simply brilliant, Daeron.” She never took even a gulp of her drink before placing it back.

He shrugged at that. “Had you wanted him, Shae, you might have made an effort. I do not claim to know what changed your mind, but I want him to have someone who will help.”

“Aye, and he has chosen Elia Martell.” The smug smile on her face was enough to make him want to hurl. “Is he as concerned for you as you are for him?”

“You know, my dear, you’ve always been a tad mean-spirited and more than a handful, but until this day it never crossed my mind that you were a fool beside.” Shaena awarded him a glare. “Scowl all you like. You know very well he worries for all of us. But he is only one man.”

“You always protect him.” And she always blamed him. Daeron could say little in the face of facts. “He doesn’t want your stupid wolf.”

“What were you thinking of when he was playing?” If she wouldn’t aid, then he at least had to make her understand so she would not get in his way. “Come, Shaena, you can tell me.”

“So you may mock me,” she guessed. Nevertheless, she did tell him. “I was counting in my head the number of houses sworn to the current Lord Baratheon.” A brief pause ensued. “I know you believe me to be heartless, so I do not make excuses this time.”

“And here you are wrong. I know you to be heartless when it suits you. My stupid wolf is betrothed to Robert Baratheon, you know?” She did not react outwardly to his words but for a nod. “It all depends on how much you want the Stormlands, sister mine? You can do some good for once in your life and get what you desire, or you can make attempts on your own, and fail.”

“You would aid me secure Robert?” Had it not crossed her mind that Daeron was willing to do anything for House Targaryen? He smiled sweetly and confirmed her suspicions.

“If I have to, Shaena, I shall knock him over the head and drag him to your bed.” At that she muffled her reaction. “I am your brother, and if ever you need my aid, you will have it. Just as long as you remember that everything comes at a price.”

He ignored the mild disappointment on her face in favour of a mouthful of mutton. It was truly well cooked. Daeron chewed thoughtfully as Shaena gathered herself for another spar. “Twas fine, they had more than enough time. To no surprise, his sister’s voice returned with a vengeance.

“I would have an eye on Ser Jaime then, brother dearest. The way he sniffs around the she-wolf’s skirts is sure to have a few tongues wagging. And a few fists flying. Look at them even now, deep in conversation.” But Daeron, despite her advice, was looking at their oldest brother whose face showed some signs of uncertain annoyance. Holding back a smile, he shifted his attention to the aforementioned individuals in time to see Lord Lannister’s son sitting up, his horn held before the maiden’s face.

Lady Lyanna shook her head, as if in refusal of some offer. She pushed the horn away gently and said something he could not decipher over the breadth which separated them. Should he be even slightly worried at their closeness? Daeron was not quite certain; what he did know though was that for the time being he would keep an eye on them. Better safe than sorry.

“That look on his face,” Shaena drawled, “is quite telling.”

“You women,” Daeron sighed in reply, “the moment a man gets a slightly out of ordinary expression on his face you think ‘tis love when actually ‘tis just a bit of bad food playing havoc.” He laughed at the cross expression she affected for him. “Heartless women are not supposed to know anything about love, my dear. Best you concentrate on your schemes.”

“I plan to, never fear.” She returned her attention to the wolf and lion just as he did in time to catch sight of the eldest Stark sibling cutting into what had been up to that point a rather enthralling experience. It seemed that even if he did not exert himself, others would do it in his stead. Pleased with that much, Daeron glanced down at his mutton.

Rhaegar might not wish to listen to him, but he would be grateful later on. Of that, Daeron as certain, willing even to give up the only maiden of some interest he’d come across. Surely his efforts would be appreciated at some point.  

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. viii - the end is empty

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elia motioned him closer, leaning towards him ever so slightly. “If Your Grace does not think it too forward of me, I should like a question.” Her hand rested intimately upon his arm, fingers pressing lightly into his skin. The touch, no matter how gentle, felt a veritable stab, senses heightened in discomfort. Rhaegar stared back at her for a few moments, not answering.

It would not take long, he told himself, and he would be back on Dragonstone. With that in mind, he managed to gather enough will to speak. “But of course. Feel free to ask anything you want of me.” The blasted fog before his eyes did not let up even as he closed them momentarily.

The cool night air had helped sober him some when Lady Lyanna had dragged him into the gardens, but that was long gone and it was back to squinting eyes and trying not to appear as if aught was amiss.  Beside his eyes playing tricks on him, Rhaegar could feel a vague sense of dread coiling within his skull, as if to let him know the night would not pass with ease. Resigned to the knowledge, he could do little but strain himself to catch the last part of Elia’s question.

“What I mean to say is that Your Grace seems ill at ease. I simply fear you have been too long alone.” He’d missed an important part of what she’d been saying, Rhaegar recognised. But Elia, unknowing of his sparse attention, had finished and was awaiting an answer.

“I do not know what to say. It seems to me–“ A blur moved to his side, interrupting him as he turned his head to survey the distraction. When it proved to have been only a servant woman carrying ale, he returned his attention towards Elia. “It seems to me too great a risk, is all.”

A thoughtful sound left her lips. “Mayhap you have the right of it.” Rhaegar could not be sure, but he thought he heard a smile somewhere in there. “I pray you do not think less of me, Your Grace. ‘Tis just I am weary. You see.”

He did not see. Not at all. “Weary? What could possibly have caused it?” Remarkably sensible, Elia Martell was the last person he would suspect of entertaining highly improbable notions. It was not that he thought it impossible per se. After all, she was only human as well and likely to have her own failures. Nevertheless, the Dornish Princess had never failed to be less than poised and graceful.

“Foolish thoughts is all,” the woman at his side sighed and patted his arm gentle, seemingly having changed her mind about sharing the burden with him. “’Tis little enough to be worried over, Your Grace. Now I feel so inadequate for making a fuss.”

He had two options at hand. Rhaegar could either insist she share her fears with him and try to assuage them as best he could. Or he could take her words at face value and leave the matter be. Elia did not seem, in truth, shaken. He assumed whatever those thoughts had been were very simply those occasional needling phantasmagorical imaginings best buried away, never to see the light of day again. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, the decided not to. Instead, he covered her hand with his own and gave a gentle squeeze. “I find it most endearing.” That he made no true fuss that was.

He did not suppose it was aught meriting admiration that he beat such a hasty retreat, but then, histrionics had never been aught which he concerned himself with. An old dog could rarely be taught new tricks. Elia would have to make do with noncommittal comments upon such matters, even if he did not wish to disappoint her expectations. Mother had taught him over the years that it was best not to show how much one cared. Certainly though, there was little danger in allowing Elia to know he found her a most appropriate companion, as that could only encourage an eventual acceptance of his suit.

“Your Grace, a maiden could take those words to heart and have cause to hope.” The pressure on his arm turned playful. “Forsooth I could not be blamed if my heart was set aquiver.”

He very nearly laughed. “Have I set your heart aquiver? That makes me very glad indeed.” Allowing a small smile to form upon his lips, Rhaegar noted with some relief that his sight had returned. He looked upon the crowd. “Very glad indeed,” he murmured absently as his sight came upon Jaime Lannister standing to his feet before a bench.

He recognised the woman with him as well. Lady Lyanna was seated holding a drinking horn with a manner of scowl upon her face. Pursed lips were followed by what looked to be a snappish answer. Ser Jaime seemed not to mind, seating himself down and forcing the maiden to turn her face away. They exchanged a few words before the Lannister heir looked to him over the girl’s shoulder.  

“How peculiar,” the Dornishwoman noted. “Ser Jaime seems to be taken with Lord Stark’s daughter. I never would have suspected it. She does not seem the sort to enjoy such a dalliance. But you know, Ashara Dayne says she saw them together earlier as well.” His companion made a sharp little sound of disapproval. “A lady should not–“

“Should not?” he queried when she failed to complete the thought.

“I merely mean that one should not be so single-minded in their pursuit. I am certain Lady Lyanna does not mean to cause trouble.” After a thoughtful silence she added, “There now, he seems to have a tad more sense.” Jaime Lannister had pulled away from the she-wolf and sketched her a bow, drinking horn in hand just before the eldest Stark sibling came into his life of sight.

For some odd reason, Rhaegar experienced a moment of relief. As soon as he could fairly place the feeling, he stiffened. It had to do with her earlier actions, he told himself. She had aided him. Naturally he would feel inclined to reward that, or at the very least to make it up to her. Jaime Lannister was by no means an idiotic child. He must have known what he was doing. It stood then to reason that was well aware of the impression his actions caused.

Lyanna Stark he was not so certain about. As a general rule, gauging someone’s character by the few lines they’d exchanged seemed an idea fit for song, not life. Then again the girl was yet young and likely to be taken in by a cheery smile and promises.

“I am certain Lady Lyanna has enough sense of her own,” he found himself defending the she-wolf who was being led away by grimfaced kin. She looked over her shoulder, stare meeting Ser Jaime’s. Pain flared to life , anvil crashing into his temples with force.      

Elia tittered lightly. “Ever so gallant. I was not insulting Lord Stark’s daughter. Merely complimenting Tywin Lannister’s son.” It seemed she found true amusement in the matter. Rhaegar let it be, suppressing a sigh at that.

“It would serve her very ill in anyone should overhear our conversation and spread rumours. My brother is quite taken with her.” He’d not meant to involve Daeron, but what other excuse was there to end the conversation. Lyanna Stark was not someone he had any wish to think of.

Understanding flickered upon Elia’s face. “I suppose it might land her in some trouble, Fair enough, Your Grace, let us consign this subject to the void of trivial matters not worth discussing at length. Shall you be watching the joust on the morrow?”

The leap between subject left him slightly befuddled in so much he’d thought she might protest. Then again, there was no cause for complaint. “I’ve a mind to. Who knows which of these men I might meet in two days’ time. ‘Tis best to know my opponents.”

“Such diligence. I daresay Your Grace needn’t worry, for where there is the will to win, difficulty cannot be. If you do win, Your Grace, what do you plan to do with your prize, if ‘tis not too bold a question?” Rhaegar pondered her question carefully, knowing she was in search of encouragement.

“It would not do to spoil the surprise,” he said in the end, glancing away from her once more.

This time Lyanna Stark was speaking to a young man seated at his brother’s table. Concentration cast her features into a rather cold picture of determination. She was having an argument, Rhaegar realised, eyes widening. There, in full view of the realm, as if it mattered naught. The man turned and said something to her to which she flinched. He in turn winced, not quite able to stop himself.

“It would not do, indeed,” Elia replied with amusement, forcing his gaze away. “I must say, this is not quite what I expected it would be. Do you know, I am very glad to be a witness.”

Warmed, he smiled at her. “What did you expect?”

But Elia shook her head. “I believe that is my secret to keep, Your Grace.” And with that she excused herself, making her way to her brother’s side. Oberyn Martell threw him a rather dark glare before offering his sister a supporting arm.

“How very well-mannered.” Rhaegar turned to stare into his brother’s face. Daeron was glaring right back at the young Martell Prince, seemingly unbothered by the fact that his actions were public and visible and most certainly likely to reflect badly upon them all.

“Do you slay every dog that barks your way?” he questioned, voice sounding harsh in his own ears. “If you’ve nothing better to do than I advise keeping an eye on our sister.” Which sister was no longer in her seat but had traversed the breadth of the chamber and was speaking to Myles and Richard. “The last thing we need is Shaena trying to bring a plot to fruition under father’s nose.”

“Shaena would never,” Daeron spoke, suffusing his words with faux disbelief. “She is the mildest, gentlest creature. Surely, brother mine, you do not suspect her of plotting aught nefarious.”

“Of course not. Any plot she has in her head has been conceived long before our arrival here. Make sure she does not carry it out.” His sister was laughing, the stretch of her lips mirthless. He did wonder if other caught on. But Myles and Richard looked as if they truly believed she was amused. “Daeron. I mean it.”

“Well, if that is the case, you should be aware, Your Grace, that I require compensation.” His stare must have been incredulous for Daeron offered a shrug. “Just that you listen to me as well every once in a blue moon. Fear not, I’ve no designs upon serious matters.”

That much he did not fear. “Listen to you, you say. What exactly do you wish me to listen to?”

Once more his younger brother gave a noncommittal reply. “At the moment, I only wish you would have a care not to incite father’s suspicions. He looks to be in a devil of a mood.”

Which was not an inaccurate description of their father’s mellowest mood. Rhaegar glanced over his shoulder at the man, not bothering to hide it. The King’s eyes had drifted to Cersei Lannister who was speaking with her brother. Shaking his head, Rhaegar tried to hide a shudder creeping down his spine. “He is always in a devil of a mood and forever suspicious.” Especially of his sons. “Why should that concern me now?”

Daeron merely smiled and picked up his cup. “You would know better than I.” He drank until he’d emptied the vessel. “I mean it. You should listen to me.”

“Without doubt.” He reached out for his own cup, hoping there was some wine left.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I cannot deny that I did see them, Your Grace, but they were certainly not alone.” Lady Ashara sat in her chair with a perplexed expression. The perfect bow of her upper lip glistened from the wine, deep burgundy. “I never claimed knowledge of a liaison. And to be perfectly honest, even if I had knowledge of it, I would most certainly not spread it about.”

“Pray do not take offence, my lady. ‘Twas just I heard it and you were mentioned as witness, is all. I was merely trying to test the veracity. So there is naught to speak of?” Rhaegar had known her for how long now? Must have been a few good years.

“I can say neither aye nor nay.” One of her hand clasped at the fold of her kirtle, crumpling the embroidered floral patter between long elegant fingers. “Lady Lyanna is not well known to me, but I firmly believe she has done little to attract censure and certainly nothing to merit slander.”

“I see. Be assured that I shan’t repeat such rumours. I advise warning Lady Lyanna or even one of her brothers.” The Dornishwoman nodded, rising to her feet. “As pertaining to my sister, pray do not allow her to push the boundaries too much. Father is in a frightful mood.”

She was nodding her head, assuring him she would do just that. Rhaegar allowed her to leave, conscious that she ought to be in Shaena’s bedchamber. There had been enough suspected trysts for one day and his frayed nerves were begging for peace and quiet. Both of which he had aplenty after the door closed in Ashara Dayne’s wake.

Rhaegar remained seated longer, staring at the high lancet studiously. His sister had taken an interest in something other than how to best hide a knife under her skirts. And of all the things it had to be the melee. Given the sheer number of participants, he could not pinpoint exactly who it was she had her sight on. And Lady Ashara either had not known herself or was not willing to tell him. Whichever it was, he was left with aught to dread. But then it might well be naught. No sense in borrowing trouble.

He climbed to his feet and brought a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing a stiff spot. Best to just take it all as it came. Rhaegar gave one last glance to the small desk he’d been using, just to make certain nothing of great import had been left upon it. Satisfied with the results, he walked towards the doors leading to the bedchamber proper and opened them wide.

A breeze came from within, chilled air gliding along his skin in smooth caresses. He walked inside and closed the doors, avoiding looking at the bed. Granted it was a most difficult task given the position of that particular monstrosity. Nevertheless, he deftly avoided it by stepping to the side, so as to discard his clothing in neat order.

Once comfortable, he took hold of the jug of wine left on a stool and poured some. It was a bitter, strong fare, the strongest Lord Whent possessed. Rhaegar could only hope the blasted thing would knock him out after a few cups for his mouth heartily protested the taste. He gulped down what remained of it before staring at the empty bottom, smooth and dark. His teeth were very nearly clattering as he refilled it.

This time he took to the bed, still not daring to look too long upon it. The headboard was firm behind him, holding him up with little effort. Might be he should have asked Elia if she’d been serious about her offer. He would wed her. Anticipating one’s vows had worked in favour of so many others. He shook the notion away with a bitter chuckle. She would have accepted, no doubt, hoping to cement the union.

Rhaegar by no means regretted choosing Elia. But at times he felt rather odd in her presence. He’d not promised her aught as silly and frivolous as love, yet that did not mean she knew he could not do it. It seemed to him in that moment, throat and stomach burning from the thoroughly cleansing effects of alcohol, that he was being entirely unfair to his future wife.     

Forsooth, he’d seen a few of his own close companions wed for love. A love encouraged by their kin, but still love. They’d sworn to him nothing existed which could compare. Was it fair to deprive Elia of that? Did it even matter if so? She had elected to follow him. Might be she had no need of love. The somewhat heartening thought gave him pause.

What a miserable wretch he was. Rhaegar sighed, looking down into the half empty cup. Elia would get a crown for her efforts. That was prize enough. It had to be. He rolled the earthen cup between his fingers, watching the glistening liquid swirl elegantly. Where his army failed, she had her brother’s poisons.

Laughter bubbled upon his lips at the thought. It was not the least bit amusing, but he shook from the effort of holding laughter in. Oberyn would likely have no qualms about killing his whole court in the process if the matter was left to him.

Gradually, calm returned. Rhaegar drained the rest of his drink. His lids were growing heavy. One last cup, he told himself, reaching out for the jug. His balance shaky what he managed to do was land on his side. Lord Whent had had the right of it. Pain erupted in his skull, enough of it to jolt him into action. Rhaegar lifted himself and this time grabbed the jug. He drained all its contents into the cup with shaky hands.

“To this plague of a realm,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Without fail in my deepest night terrors.” Aye, that was the right of it, naught but a pestering plague.    

 

 

 

 

 

 


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